Wine From Your Tears
by perforated sphere
Summary: Some people believe that history repeats itself, and that may be true. But is it possible that some people's souls are so entwined that they could be reincarnated for a second chance to be together?
1. Feb 5, 2000

_Author's Note: The film Newsies and the character of Jack Kelly, among others, aren't mine. Aislynn and Cassidy, however, are mine completely. With that being said, I'm going to take this opportunity to apologize wholeheartedly for this. I don't pretend to be particularly creative, or a good writer, and this crazy idea is the result of general insanity and boredom inspired by the Donnie Darko soundtrack - the source of the title is the song "Never Tear Us Apart," by INXS, the lyrics of which I may use later. So here's to hoping it's not half-bad. I'd like to write something that I can eventually say that I'm the least bit proud of._

* * *

_**February 5th, 2000**_

She didn't know what she was looking for. Come to think of it, Aislynn Fitzpatrick hardly ever knew what she was looking for, but this night especially. She'd known what she needed to do for months now, and here she was with a few hours left to do it, sitting in a nearly-empty parking lot at eleven at night smoking a cigarette and listening to 80's rock and roll music. 'Great, just great, Aislynn,' she thought between puffs of smoke. 'Eleven o'clock on a Wednesday night and you haven't managed to get your boyfriend one single fucking birthday present. Real great.' With a sigh, she opened the car door and extinguished the cigarette under the heel of her combat boot as she stood up. Not many stores were open that late in the middle of the week, but she was so desperate that she would get anything she would find, with the possible exception of something from one of the only stores open, selling clothes for young to adolescent girls.

The used books store wasn't particularly pleasing to the eye from the outside. The paint on the awning had faded, the lighting inside was dim, a faint musty smell lingered just outside the door, noticeable to anyone walking by. But on that particular night, something compelled Aislynn to walk in. She was greeted with "We're closing in a half-hour," from an employee, a man who looked like he was about college-aged, and she nodded slightly in recognition. 'There's no reason for me to be in here,' she thought repeatedly. 'Jack barely ever reads, it's not like he likes to do it a lot.' Yet in the bookstore she stayed, a small part of her certain that whatever she was looking for would be on the dusty shelves of the small store.

Aislynn wasn't sure how long she had spent looking when she came to a box of books with the word "Clearance" scrawled messily across the side with a black Sharpie near the register. They were mostly crime novels and romance novels, with spines so worn that some titles were barely readable; but somewhere in the middle of the collapsing cardboard box, there was a small black leather book that she would have described as 'ancient.' Her fingers brushed lightly over the worn leather, the feel of it sending chills up and down her spine. She picked it up gently, some of the yellowed pages nearly slipping out as she did so, and let the book fall open to the first page. It was someone's journal, it seemed, not really a book at all - a faded, wrinkled photograph lay on the first page, with a caption meant to be below it which read only, in a tiny, neat cursive script, "The Strike." It was of ten or so boys, all seeming to be between ten and twenty. Most of them had strange expressions on their faces, as if they had never posed for a picture before (one appeared to have stubbed his toe), but there was one boy in the middle, beaming proudly as if he had accomplished something fantastic. Her face went blank, her jaw dropped. "Jack," she breathed. For it was him, she would know him anywhere. Without a moment's hesitation, she stood up, book in hand, and placed it on the counter. "I'll take it," she said hurriedly, her voice breathy and anxious. The same employee who'd greeted her when she came in told her that it was two dollars, which she paid eagerly and then practically ran out of the store, clutching the book tightly in her hand.

When she got to her car, she was nearly panting to get air. She had a sensation like she was shaking; as she calmed herself, she stared at the plain black cover of the book. Whoever had owned it before had used it well - it was a wonder it was still held together ('Someone must have taken good care of this after it was used,' she thought briefly), and from where some pages were sticking out, it seemed as if all the pages had been filled with the same tidy writing which had captioned the picture that damn near terrified her. Hesitantly, she opened the book again, studying more closely the old photo. It appeared to be clipped out of a newspaper, she noticed, though left loose in the book rather than taped or glued in. She was certain now that the face in the picture was Jack; she had rarely seen him smile that broadly, but he was unmistakable, especially to her. She laid the photo down gently, almost worried that it would fall apart in her hands, and turned the page. A few words were written on the reverse of the opening page as if they were names, first letters capitalized. Some were illegible, the ink worn down and smeared through the years, but she could still make out some. _Snipeshooter...Boots...David, Mush, Bumlets, Jack-_ "Jack?" she said aloud, stunned. She went back to the picture, and counted in by the names, those she could read and those she couldn't. Sure enough, where "Jack" was written corresponded with the boy in the photo. She shook her head in disbelief. "Who are you?" she asked the picture, cradling the picture in her hands and looking at the boy who was Jack. "Who are you?"


	2. Sept 21, 1899

_**September 21, 1899**_

Everyone knew her only as "Spot's Girl." He never referred to her by name, he would just say things like, "I'm going to see my girl," or, "I don't know what to do with that girl," or, "I love that girl so much." Vague, very Spot Conlon. They had been together as long as anyone had known Spot, which Jack counted to be two or maybe three years - she moved to the Bowery from Boston in 1897 (or maybe 1896, no one could remember for sure), and while Spot never explained how, they met within a month, and, in his words, "just fell right in love with each other." None of the boys had ever been able to meet her, unless you considered "meeting" being shown a small photograph, faded and torn; to the Bowery from Brooklyn was a long walk, one that Spot took often. The trips that Spot took were never day trips. Jack took over for him in his absence, and David filled the role usually occupied by Jack. "One day you'll go off to Brooklyn and never come back, and you'll leave my little brother in charge of all those rowdy boys," Sarah would joke, laughing melodiously. Jack loved her laugh. Hearing her laugh made going out to Brooklyn for at least a day and a night more than worth it. His response never changed - "I'll always come back to you," he told her every time, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead before climbing out her window and down the fire escape.

But things had changed. Sarah was dead now, along with Spot and Crutchy. Tragedy, it seemed, struck hard after the success of the strike; no one would forget David's face when he walked into the distribution center one August morning to tell them all that the headline, "Girl Hit And Killed By Runaway Carriage", was about his sister, or Kid Blink's shock at discovering Spot's crumpled body in an alley and his voice as he told them he was killed in a knife fight, or Jack fighting off tears as all the boys awoke one morning - all but Crutchy, who'd tried to downplay a cold that had quickly gotten increasingly worse. Most of the boys would say Jack bounced back quickly, or even too quickly. The only people who knew otherwise were David and Les Jacobs, and their parents. Jack spent the night of Sarah's funeral in her bed, crying - not just for her, but for all the people he lost; he went to work that morning with his typical smirk plastered on his face, ignoring any comments about looking tired or his eyes being bloodshot.

Even now, months later, there were days when Jack Kelly bought fewer papers so he could walk to Brooklyn. Not to mourn or remember his dead friend, he would say to himself, that was too sentimental. He had some responsibility to those boys, who had basically run wild with the demise of their leader, he needed to look out for them, check in on them once in a while. At least while the weather was still nice, he would be able to go once every couple weeks. In his trips, he had begun to find the Brooklyn docks less and less crowded, he assumed because all anyone could think of there was Spot. Last week they were empty completely. This week, there was someone sitting on the edge of the pier, legs dangling down to the water. Jack would have ignored it, but the person was barely moving, which worried him for reasons he couldn't explain. He'd been more on edge since the deaths of his friends. "Hey, hey kid, you alright?" he called out, walking a little bit closer.

"Fine," answered the person - the voice of a girl. As she stood up, Jack could see now that it should have been obvious. Even in oversized clothes, it was clear that she was skinnier than any boy would have been, and her hair went down past her shoulders. Still, Jack could not think of a single reason why a girl would be sitting on a dock in Brooklyn. That is, he couldn't until she turned around.

Jack was practically speechless. He'd seen this girl's face before. "You're Sp-" He cut himself off. _Jesus, Jack. Her boyfriend's not dead a month, and you start to call her Spot's Girl?_ He sighed, a deep, tired sigh. "I'm sorry. I don't know your name."

To Jack's surprise, the girl smiled and approached him. "Cassidy. Cassidy Doyle. And yes, I was, at one time, 'Spot's Girl'." She held out her hand for him to shake and he took it, forcing a smile. He opened his mouth, possibly to introduce himself, but she cut him off. "And I know who you are, Jack Kelly." They both laughed. Something in Jack's stomach churned, caught off-guard. Her laugh sounded like Sarah's.

"So, Cassidy, what brings you to Brooklyn?" he asked, almost too casually. It was his typical manner - make everything lighthearted, change the subject when you're upset, don't talk about the serious things, like Spot (and Sarah) being dead.

Cassidy took a deep breath. "I've never been here before. It's...it's not that I'm here to think about Spot. Well, sort of. But he's dead, and I can't change that. Ever since he died, though, it bothered me that I never came here. He always came to me. I never got to see this with him." Her green eyes met Jack's brown ones, and she made herself smile. "And I have no idea how the hell I'm gonna get home, I practically got lost finding this place." She laughed, and the mood changed again.

He could hear the slight sadness in her voice. He knew how she must feel all too well, he was sure, and somehow he felt compelled to do something. "Listen," he began, in usual Jack Kelly fashion, "you got a long walk ahead of you, and you shouldn't do that on an empty stomach. Let me buy you lunch before you go," he suggested, a smirk returning to his face.

She stared at him for what seemed to him like an eternity, and when she finally did speak, "Okay," was all she said.

Neither Cassidy nor Jack could quite explain how lunch lead to a dark alley, or the small girl pressed against a cold stone wall, gasping for breath as Jack Kelly, Manhattan's famous strike leader, leaned in for another kiss. Her long, thin fingers tightened in his wavy hair; he clung to her bony hips. Both seemed desperate, and maybe they both were. Beads of sweat had started to form along her hairline, and she pushed him gently backwards. "I maybe don't have to go home tonight," she suggested awkwardly, trying not to laugh as he came in close to her again.

Jack shook his head a little. "Goddamn, I see what he saw in you."

"What?" She stopped moving.

"Spot. I see what he saw in you." He started to kiss her again, but she stopped him. "What's wrong?"

She let out a dry laugh and smiled. "Spot never did anything like this." He didn't have a chance to reply before she kissed him, resting her elbows on his shoulders and wrapping her legs around his waist.

She saw his eyebrows raise, and this time he was the one to stop them, although his fingers now combed through her red hair; something about her made him always want to have his hands on her. "I have a place we can go. If you're sure."

"Then let's go." She reached her hands to his, their fingers intertwining, as she slid back down to the ground from where she had been perched around Jack's waist.

With the late hour, Jack hadn't counted on running into anyone en route to the cheap, one-room apartment he rented shortly after Sarah died, for when he needed time alone. But he was wrong. It had been only a minute since the two walked out of the alley, her small left hand wrapped in his big right, when Jack was stopped by a tall blonde boy with an eye patch. "Who's the girl, Jack?" Kid Blink asked, looking at her curiously.

Jack could tell that she looked familiar to his friend, just as she had to him earlier. "Blink, this is, ah, Cassidy." She was identified just as Kid Blink realized just who she was, but Jack cut him off before he could speak. "Don't tell nobody. 'Specially Dave," Jack whispered in Blink's ear. The boy nodded, and took one long glance at Cassidy before heading off to the lodging house.

"What was that all about?" she asked him as they continued walking.

"Who cares?" he responded. Neither of them did.


	3. Sept 21, 1999

**_September 21, 1999_**

Jack didn't know why he still came to Brooklyn. Jamie had been dead for over a month now, as hard as it was for Jack to believe, leaving him with no ties to the Borough. Still, somehow he felt compelled to go, to catch up on what Jamie had left behind, even if it meant sacrificing his day off and spending the week's tip money on a cab across the bridge and another one back. _Christ, I can't afford this,_ he thought, looking out the window at what must have been the hundredth traffic jam they were stuck in and recounting the folded bills in his pocket. _I might have been better off walking._ He sighed. It was clear that this trip was definitely not worth this much money. "Hey, man, just let me out here, it's fine," he said, after debating for a moment what his best option would be. The driver, focused on the traffic and the typical bad drivers, shouted an expletive out the window in a foreign language that Jack couldn't understand, but eagerly took the money Jack gave him.

Jack jumped out of the cab to be greeted with not only the familiar sights and smells of Brooklyn, but countless memories of his dead friend. It had been a sad two months for Jack and his friends, losing not only Jamie, but Sara - Jack's girlfriend, and his best friend's sister - and Sam, who had always been so cheerful and caring, the one of the boys that they all thought they'd never lose. Jack had never been able to let on to anyone, except maybe Sara's brother David, how shaken he had been by the deaths, especially when he was the one that everyone turned to when they were upset. He made it a point to keep up appearances for the other boys, to always be in control. After all, they needed a leader, that was decided early on; one person had to be the responsible one and look out for everyone else and their needs. That was where Jack figured into the picture. He was the oldest, he'd been working at the pizza joint the longest, he was the toughest - from an outsider's eyes, someone to look up to. And he had lived up to that, too, hadn't he? Wasn't he the one who lead them all on strike when the delivery boys got pay cuts? Not only that, but he came back after leaving for the bus stop, having told them all that he was finally getting a Greyhound out to Santa Fe like he'd always wanted, saying that he wouldn't abandon his family.

"Shit! Excuse me," a female voice said. While lost in thought, Jack had stopped paying attention so much that he'd walked right into a young woman, and knocked her purse and its contents to the ground.

_Nice, Jack. Real nice,_ he thought, but forced a smile and bent down to the sidewalk. "God, I'm sorry. Let me help you," he said, bending to the ground to help her pick things up. She said a thank you, but he barely heard it - a pack of cigarettes had caught his eye, and his hand lingered over it. "Can I…?" he asked, gesturing to it.

The girl laughed. "Sure. Knock yourself out."

Jack lit a cigarette, put the pack in her purse, and looked up at her for the first time. He stared - there was something oddly familiar about her, but he couldn't place it. "Oh, I know who you are!" he said with a sudden realization. "You were Jamie's girlfriend, right? What's your name again?"

She nodded, chewing on her lower lip. "Aislynn Fitzpatrick. And yes, I was." Her pause made Jack realize what a stupid thing he had said; he apologized as he helped her to her feet. "Don't worry about it. Who're you?"

"Kelly, Jack Kelly," he said. "You're not from Brooklyn, are you? I sorta remember him saying you lived someplace else, and going to visit you, or something-"

"The Bowery. I've lived there for two years; I'm from Boston."

They talked. It was casual, maybe even chilly, but they were still talking. After about an hour one of them suggested lunch, the other agreed, and as the afternoon progressed, they got more and more friendly. It was getting late, and the subject of heading home had just come up, when Jack realized something that he wasn't about to pass up. "Hey, Aislynn," he began, not sure how to bring up what could be a touchy subject.

"Hm?" she said, and glanced up from where her eyes had been on her feet.

"That, uh, key that Jamie had, the one he always wore. Do you know what it was for?" he asked unsurely.

"Nope. He never told me. I guess I'll never know."

Jack sighed. "Well, uh, one of the boys found it in his stuff after…you know. And gave it to me, I'm not sure why. But I thought maybe you might want it. We could take a taxi back to Manhattan, split the fare or something, and I could get it for you…" He looked to see what her response was. She was already hailing a cab.

As he lead Aislynn down the corridor to his apartment, he was beginning to think that perhaps he shouldn't have invited her. It wasn't like he often used the place, which would better be described as a room, anyway; usually he stayed with the rest of the boys. It had often crossed his mind to give the place up, but then since Sara's and Jamie's and Sam's deaths, he found that more frequently than he would have liked, he needed to be alone. Thus, the apartment. Without looking at her, he opened the door and turned on the light. "Let me find it. Feel free to sit down wherever," he said, beginning to look through the small drawers in his bedside table.

Aislynn sat on the edge of the small mattress, leaving her purse on the ground. It wasn't a particularly nice place, but it could have been worse. It was certainly better than the places she would be staying if Jamie hadn't made arrangements with some friends to make sure that she always had a place to stay. Sometimes, when she really thought about him, she thought that he may have actually loved her, as unusual as that would have been at their age. The thought always made her feel a bit guilty. Sure, they had been together for two years, but -

Jack kissed her. The key was resting on the wooden dresser, but Jack was kissing her, and she was kissing him back, and his hands were on her shoulders holding her down on the bed, and his tongue was in her mouth and all of a sudden, she knew what she wanted. Breathlessly, he asked if she could stay, lightening his grip on her, and she nodded. She tried to choke out a 'yes,' but he was taking off her shirt and then his jeans and she knew it just wasn't worth it to talk.


	4. Oct 31, 1899

**_October 31, 1899_**

"Me and some of the boys are going out tonight, you should come. We've barely seen you lately." David's words from the morning echoed in Jack's head as he returned to his apartment early in the evening. How could he tell his best friend that the reason he hadn't been spending time with the boys was because he had been with another girl so soon after Sarah's death, that the two of them were screwing and practically playing house in his seedy apartment? He weighed his options for what had to be the millionth time as he walked up the rickety old staircase. He could go, bring her, and risk his friends being angry (and probably without another second chance); or he could stay and not even mention the outing to her, and distance himself from the boys he called his family even more than he already had. _Either way_, he thought as he turned the key in the lock, _I'm pushing it with the boys. So why not?_

Cassidy sat up in bed when she heard the door begin to open, and engrossed herself in the book she was reading once more. Jack didn't need to know that she'd been watching for him to come back, that would be unnecessarily awkward. So he came in and spoke a greeting as he walked to the bed, and she responded with a casual "Hey," and put her book on the bedside table.

Jack took a seat beside her, sitting cross-legged so he could face her. "Listen," he began, an opening which she wasn't sure if she liked or not, "a bunch of the boys are going out tonight, since it's Halloween and all. I didn't say if I'd go or not yet, because, well…I was wondering if you'd like to come. With me. And meet the boys and all." It was silent for a moment as they stared at each other. "I mean, you don't have to, I just thought it might be nice to get out together and all, but-"

"I'd love to," she admitted, practically jumping out of the bed so she could get dressed.

A wide smirk spread across Jack's face as he watched her slip out of her nightgown and into a blouse and long skirt. "What did you say?" he asked curiously, sliding off the bed and putting the change from his pocket into the drawer of the bedside table where he kept all his earnings.

She stopped and turned to look at him. "I said…I said…I'd love to," she said softly, consequently turning a pale shade of pink.

"That's what I thought you said." He chuckled, and she, in turn, smiled, and continued dressing. It crossed Jack's mind as he watched her to warn her about the way the boys might react. They'd all known Spot, and they'd all heard about her, and he knew it wouldn't be fair not to tell her that there was a possibility they would be hostile about him bringing her. But he decided against it. Telling her might make her want to stay home, or get her upset, neither of which he wanted to happen. So, instead, he smiled while she finished dressing.

Half an hour later, Jack lead Cassidy down the road to the Duane Street Lodging House, the place he used to call home. He found himself suddenly uneasy, though he tried not to let on his worries of what the boys would say to not only his uninvited guest, but also to the fact that she had been Spot's girlfriend. Standing by his decision not to tell her, he instead mentioned that it may not be a good idea for a girl to go traipsing into the boys' lodging house, and so they waited outside.

It was a matter of minutes before the gang of boys paraded out the door, lead by a laughing Racetrack. His smile, as well as some of the other boys', faded when they saw Jack holding the hand of a familiar-looking redhead. "Jackie, that ain't who I think-" he hissed, eyebrows raised, but was cut off by Jack.

"Race, boys, this is Cassidy. Cassidy, this is Racetrack, Kid Blink, Mush, Skittery, Boots…the boys. And David." His eyes lingered on his best friend, who had that "look". The look of utter disproval, the one that Jack hadn't seen since the truth about his parents had been exposed in court after the rally. Jack had seen it coming, really; he should have expected that David would be cold. But the rest of the boys were silent, too, clearly all recognizing the girl, and Cassidy was looking at Jack for something to say. Jack was at a loss for words himself, too, except a soft "Dave, I'm sorry," which was met with David frowning, shaking his head gently, and looking away.

"You're Spot's girlfriend," Blink finally said, breaking the awkward silence.

Cassidy's palm was beginning to sweat, but she clutched Jack's hand tighter as she nodded. "I _was,_" she corrected. "But he's dead now, and I can't change that."

David stepped forward, that nearly-disgusted look that made Jack cringe still on his face. "So, this is where you've been the past month, huh? With some tramp?"

"Don't, David," Jack warned, shaking his hand loose and pushing Cassidy behind him.

David scoffed and continued. "Oh, as if it's not bad enough that her boyfriend - one of your best friends, if I recall - hasn't been dead for a month yet. But _Sarah_, Jack! My sister, your supposed girlfriend. What about her? What about us, me and Les and our parents? Do any of us mean a thing to you?" His voice had escalated to a yell, and Mush put a hand on David's shoulder to calm him down. "You know, I was right about you that day you sold us out. You don't care about anyone but yourself." He'd quieted, but he spoke with a tone laced with bitterness and resentment.

No one spoke, but it was clear to everyone that Jack was furious. His hands were clenched into fists, his muscles tensed. "Jack, Jack, don't, please," Cassidy pleaded, putting a hand on his shoulder that he instantly brushed off. "It's not worth it, Jack. We should just go."

Jack looked back at her. "Alright," he choked. None of the boys except David had ever seen him get that visibly upset, but it relaxed her more to hear him concede.

The two didn't say any goodbyes as they walked away, but after a few feet, Jack stopped and turned around again, to look at all the boys, talking again. "David," he called out, and the brown-haired boy turned. "I ain't gonna do nothing tonight. But someday you'll regret you said that." He stared a moment at the boy he could no longer call his friend, then as he felt a tug from Cassidy on his hand, returned to walking.

"Jack," Cassidy said softly as they neared the apartment building, after a silent walk. "Why did you do that, stand up for me like that? They were right about me. I have no right to be with you after I was with Spot for so long, so soon after his death." Her light voice was sad, defeated even.

Jack sighed. "Hey," he murmured, and stopped walking. "It's not like we did this on purpose. We just happened to meet is all. And, well…" He paused.

"What?"

"Well, I'm glad we did. Meet, I mean."

She said nothing, but they continued walking, until they entered the building and reached the door to the apartment. "Jack?" she said, as he turned the key in the lock, "Me too."


	5. Oct 31, 1999

**_October 31, 1999_**

Adjusting the small, cracked mirror for the twentieth time that evening, Aislynn unwound the last of the cheap pink sponge curlers she'd bought earlier that day. She and Jack had discussed briefly a few days earlier the prospect of dressing up for Halloween, but now that she was looking at herself in the mirror, wearing the dress she'd bought at a thrift store and her usually-limp red hair in curls, she felt like a little girl again. Near the point of actually giggling, she put on the final touches of her costume - long black gloves that matched the dress, and a pair of six-inch stilettos (a lucky find at a consignment store).

"Hello?" Jack called out as he opened the door.

Aislynn smiled seductively as she stepped out of the bathroom and struck a dramatic pose. "I'm ready for my close-up, Mister Kelly," she said in a deep voice, then was unable to contain herself and burst out laughing.

Jack laughed with her. "You look gorgeous," he said, although he was no longer looking at her; he was assembling the pieces of his own costume. He'd worn some of them all day, the worn button-down shirt and suspenders and vest, all that was left were his boots, lasso, and cowboy hat.

"Go get 'em, Cowboy," she teased as he jammed the hat over his wavy golden-brown hair.

Suddenly, Jack looked a little uncomfortable. "Hey, I know we were just gonna go walk around for a while tonight." Aislynn nodded. "But, uh, some of the boys decided to throw a party, and they really want me to go. So, I was wondering…if you'd want to come with me?"

The girl raised her eyebrows, showing Jack why her eyes had looked so different - fake eyelashes. "That depends," she said slowly, smirking. "Will there be beer?"

Jack laughed and swatted her arm, but quickly became serious. "Of course," he said, acting as if he'd been insulted. "What kind of boys do you think we are?" They both laughed, and as they walked to the door, she picked up a cheap faux-fur stole that had been thrown across the back of a chair and a small black handbag before taking his arm.

It took Jack the entire half-hour walk to explain to Aislynn how the first boys to work the pizza place had set up a lodging house of sorts - more like a dorm, really - in the apartment above the restaurant, how they each paid their share of the rent for the place every month. By the time he lead her to the alley behind the shop, to bring her upstairs, her feet were aching and probably blistering. As they walked up the stairs, they could hear the loud rock music blaring from inside, something popular that Aislynn couldn't identify and didn't care enough about to ask Jack, who she was sure knew exactly what it was. "It's me," Jack yelled as he pounded on the door, clearly struggling to be heard above the noise.

They were let in by a boy who looked to be about their age dressed as a pirate, eye patch and all. He stared at Aislynn as she nervously followed Jack into the correctly described dorm-like room, full of bunk beds against walls that were covered with posters of various interests and things like that. Aislynn should have known by the stare that there was something off, for she certainly wasn't the only girl in the room, nor was she the prettiest. But as Jack lead her past the doorway, she began to attract the attention of more people, causing one to even turn down the music that was playing. Within moments, it was silent, and everyone was looking with distaste at Jack and the girl he'd brought with him.

"Who's the whore, Jack?" a voice called out furiously.

"That's Jamie Conlon's girlfriend," another voice replied, with just as much anger.

Jack should have seen it coming. He couldn't deny that it was his fault - he hadn't told any of them about her, and he hadn't warned her that they all had known Jamie well, some of them better than they would have liked to. She was clinging to his upper arm, now, and it didn't require looking at her to tell how uncomfortable she was. _I knew this was a fucking bad idea_, he thought, as the first of the boys to speak stood up. He had only seen David look this angry once before, during the summer's strike, and after being given a second chance, he knew things were about to get bad. "Aislynn, go wait outside," he muttered to her, and although confused, she nodded as he pushed her in the direction of the door.

From her position, seated on the landing of the fire escape with her ear pressed to the door, Aislynn could only hear bits and pieces of what was going on inside. The boy who had stood up was yelling something about Sara (_the girl Jack used to be dating,_ she recalled), and Jack yelled something back, and before she knew it, she could hear the sounds of a fistfight, and all of the boys shouting as they watched. _Goddamnit, Jack,_ she thought in exasperation as she listened to the fight inside. _You should have told me they'd know who I was. You shouldn't have invited me in the first place. _

It was a few minutes later, spent by Aislynn wondering what she could say to Jack when he left the building, when he opened the door and staggered out. "Jesus Christ, Jack!" she shouted, jumping to her feet so he could lean on her. He had clearly been the losing party in the fight (either that, or Aislynn felt horrible for the other boy); his left eye was already black and there were some more bruises forming on his face, as well as having gash near his temple that looked like it could have been from a broken beer bottle, some smaller cuts on his face and one on his lower lip, and his shirt was ripped in several places. His hat must have come off at some point, for he no longer had it.

"I, uh…Davey, he…" Jack croaked as he tried to make his way down the stairs. He was nearly successful; before Aislynn could say anything in response, he collapsed, nearly falling down the remaining five stairs, but was caught, in a sense, by the combination of the girl that followed him and the black metal railing.

"Shit, Jack," she muttered, putting his arm around her shoulder and trying to walk with him to the sidewalk. It almost didn't work, but before long, as Jack struggled to limp alongside her, she had hailed a taxi and was helping him into the backseat with her.

The cab driver looked back, intending to ask where they were headed, but instead saw Jack laying across the seat with his head resting in Aislynn's lap and couldn't help but say, "What the fuck happened to him?"

She sighed. "Mugged," she lied, but the explanation was good enough for the cabby, and she gave the address of their apartment.

After a few blocks of what could be described as reckless driving, Jack opened his mouth in an attempt to speak. "Shh, we're almost home. Don't try to say anything," she murmured before leaning down and kissing him softly on the forehead.

"I was going to say 'sorry for getting your dress all bloody,' but since you don't care…" Jack groaned, but managed a small laugh and a smile.

Once outside the apartment, Aislynn paid the cabby with a twenty dollar bill from her handbag, then went about the struggle of getting Jack up the flights of stairs to their room. Neither was keeping track, but it seemed to take as long as the cab ride itself had, and it was far more difficult - Aislynn had always been a short girl, Jack was nearly a foot taller than her, and she was just thin while Jack was well-built. Yet despite the struggle, she managed to get him to the apartment without causing him any further injuries.

Once inside, she promptly brought him to the bed and pulled off the quilt, so he could lay only on top of the sheets. "You don't have to do this, you know," he said as she took a scrunchie from the bedside table and pulled her still-curled hair into a messy bun.

She slid off both black gloves. "Yes, I do," she replied, bending over him to unbutton his shirt (the vest had been nearly ripped off during the fight, leaving no buttons for her to undo). She slid off his suspenders, then, with a bit of difficulty, removed the shirt and vest and got him a t-shirt from the dresser, which she helped him into. Taking off his pants was easier, as was getting him into the pair of pajama pants that he had left laying on the floor that morning. It was clear - partly from his silence - that Jack was not pleased about needing her help, but whether it was a conscious choice or not, he was distracted from his frustration when she unzipped her dress and let it slip to the floor alongside her already-fallen stole and purse, leaving her completely unclothed.

"That made this so worth it," he muttered to himself, just loud enough so she could hear and laugh. Taking a t-shirt of her own and a pair of his boxers, she walked to the bathroom, dressing as she did so. By the sink, she wet an old washcloth, wrung out the excess water, and brought it back to the bed.

She sighed as she began to wash the blood off his face, trying to be careful of the bruises. "That was a really fucking stupid thing you did, you know," she said, almost coldly - certainly as if he hadn't just seen her completely naked. He said nothing, but nodded his head slightly. It was silent for a few minutes, until she finished with the rag and returned it to the bathroom, leaving it in the sink to wash later.

When she returned to the bedroom, she simply turned off the lights, covered Jack with the quilt, and crawled into bed next to him. He pulled her closer, letting her head rest on his shoulder, and one of her arms naturally draped across his chest. "It was stupid," he admitted softly. "But I'd do it again if I had to."


	6. Nov 17, 1899

_Note: Sorry this chapter has taken longer than usual. I started this story while on winter break, and my life's fallen into a bit of a shambles since then - besides being back to school, cramming for exams, and starting exams (yesterday), we just found out that my cousin has cancer, and that was a bit of a family crisis. So, needless to say, I haven't had as much free time as I'd like, and as I hopefully will again soon. :)_

* * *

**_November 17, 1899_**

"If The Sun doesn't get a new headline writer soon, I'm going over to the Journal," Jack said with a sigh as he walked into the apartment. His reasons to complain seemed to have multiplied since his fight with David on Halloween; he had gone off to sell as usual the next morning, and returned that evening covered in bruises and cuts. He told Cassidy that it wasn't a big deal, that he'd take a day off and then go back to work as usual, but she insisted that he didn't do anything that might result in him getting hurt, and suggested that he take more than a day off, or stop selling altogether. They eventually agreed that he would go back to work in a day as he wanted, but not at The World. "The Sun could use someone who can sell like I can," he said (referring to the troubles that the paper - for which his old friend Denton wrote - was going through).

It had only been a little over two weeks, but Jack was growing increasingly miserable, and his misery was beginning to rub off on Cassidy. She heaved a sigh as she heard him enter the apartment, and walked out of the small kitchen to greet him. "You want dinner? I made some soup," she said, and she looked it - her hair had been pulled back messily, there were beads of sweat on her forehead and along her hairline, and she smelled as if she'd been in a kitchen all day.

Jack let out a sound of frustration. "Again?" he asked irritably, walking away from her and sitting on the bed to take off his boots.

"It's all we can afford, Jack!" she snapped. He looked up without saying anything - curious, maybe, to hear what she was going to say. "You know," she began, "if you're that unhappy selling, you could stop and get a real job. Or I could get a job-"

"No," he said firmly, standing up. "I told you before, I don't want you going off to work."

Cassidy scoffed and stood too. "Jack, we need the money! You can't just keep me holed up in here. I had a _life_ before I came to live with you; what do I have now?" She paused briefly, a rueful expression on her face. "Some good sex, maybe? Someone who I'd like to think cares?" Another pause - somehow the words meant something to Jack, although he remained silent as she finished. "You've barely let me leave since I first came here with you, and I just can't do it anymore! It's like I'm some secret you have to keep hidden, or -"

"If you're so unhappy, then leave." Jack's voice cracked as he spoke and he sat back down on the bed, resting his head in his hands.

"Maybe I will," she retorted, without even thinking. She was a bit startled at her own words, but she had never been one to make a threat and then back down, so she walked to the door and took her jacket off one of the hooks there.

She was halfway out the door when Jack stopped her. "It was my father," he said slowly. Cassidy froze; she had never heard him speak of his parents before (or his past at all, for that matter). When she looked back, she saw that he hadn't moved. She took a step backwards and turned, closing the door and leaving herself just inside the apartment, leaning against the wood of the door as she stared at Jack. "He used to send my mother off to work while he stayed home and drank, and then he'd use her money to buy more booze." He paused and looked up at her, now standing just in front of him. "That's why I ain't just gonna let you go off to work so we can have money."

"What happened to them, Jack?" she asked gently, taking a seat next to him.

He laughed bitterly. "They got in a fight one night and he killed her."

The words made Cassidy feel like her stomach was sinking. "Did he…did he ever…" she stammered awkwardly. "You know… hurt you?"

He tilted his head up, his typical way of nodding. "I was fine, though. It was her that really got the worst of it."

"And what happened to him after that?"

"He got arrested. Life in jail." Jack's tone was nearly apathetic now, moreso than she had ever heard it. "The bastard deserved it."

If Cassidy had never loved Jack before, she certainly did now. "And you, what did you do?" Without thinking, she placed a hand on his leg, just above his knee.

Something made Jack crack a bit of a smile, though she wasn't sure what (_my hand_? she thought hopefully). "Well, I wasn't going to no orphanage, I was gone before anyone even got to the apartment. Got by on the streets a while, as best I could, got picked up one day for stealing food. Food I needed so I wouldn't starve, you know? But they hauled me off to the Refuge, this jail for kids - that's where I met Spot. He got let out, though. Probably right before he met you." Cassidy's mouth fell open slightly. She and Spot had never talked in detail about their pasts, but he had never mentioned being arrested. As Jack continued, she found herself wondering if she had ever really known him at all. "The warder, Snyder, was a real jackass, keeping the food we were supposed to eat, making all of us - a bunch of young kids, whose only crime was being _alive_, for Christ's sake - do hard labor, things like that. And, well…I was very…_vocal_ about not liking the way we were being treated, and I tried to escape once, so he kept adding time onto my sentence. Eventually, though, I did get out, on Teddy Roosevelt's carriage, no less. It was in the papes and everything."

"They got you during the strike, right? I remember Spot mentioning something like that, or…" She trailed off, not needing to finish. "Why did it take them so long to find you?"

Jack smirked; he had known the question was coming. "I was born Francis Sullivan. I started going by Jack Kelly after I broke out, so they wouldn't find me. And to cut all ties from that bastard father of mine. Even pretended for awhile like I had folks out in Santa Fe - it became like my excuse to go there. Almost did go, day the strike ended."

"But you didn't."

What she had wanted to say, of course, was 'I'm glad you didn't.' Things were complicated enough, though, that she didn't feel the need to add to it by saying something that would lead her to need to explain how much she was starting to feel for him. She was sure, when she really thought about it, that whatever they were doing was no more than just a fling. After two months, things had barely changed, so it wasn't likely that they were going to change any time soon, was it? "Why didn't you?" Cassidy blurted out suddenly, needing to say something before the thoughts in her head got worse.

"Dunno," was all Jack said, but he was full-out smiling again now, the way he did when he had a trick up his sleeve. She didn't notice that his boot was in his hand until he flung it playfully at her, and said, "Wish I had, though, or I wouldn't be sitting here in this crummy apartment with you." He laughed, his way of telling her that he wasn't being sincere; she laughed, hoping he meant the opposite of what he said. Everything was better now, it seemed, and back to whatever "normal" might be.


End file.
